Just Until We
by Zagzagael
Summary: Written for the prompt: Just until we "tied up some loose ends" on our island. Spoilers through 4x21.


_"You know the saying, 'not if he was the last man on earth'?"_

_"Yeah. Right. I don't believe you. All you two need is a deserted tropical island."_

_"And rum. We'd need a helluva lot of rum."_

This was the small throwaway conversation she'd had with Bonnie months and months ago. Another lifetime ago. This was what she remembered after she had listened to Klaus's message on her iPhone. Urgent and heartfelt. All the way from New Orleans, a city that had never been on her bucket list, his voice heavy with longing, his words crisp and clear. She had listened to the message until she had memorized every word, every nuance, the cadence of his accent becoming an earworm. She wanted to walk the streets of bourbon and jazz with a boy who was one thousand years old.

Finally, she tapped delete.

* * *

She opened her eyes. Night had fallen and brought a mid-Spring moist chill with it and her skin was cold. It took long moments to clear her head and remember, her hand at her breast. She had not been staked. And yet there was pain piercing through her, sharp and hurting, and with a deep breath she traced it out of her heart and into her mind. She had believed he was Klaus, had wanted Klaus to come and rescue her, to deal out death blows, to fix Elena, to shake sense into Rebekah, to mock Damon into his place, to build a bridge between Stefan and Elena, to heal Bonnie, to destroy Silas, to bring back some of the dead, to ruffle her feathers. To kiss her right there below her earlobe.

She wanted to offer him her vein.

* * *

She drew her mother a warm bath, liberally sprinkling scented Epsom salts under the rushing water. Sitting on the edge of the tub, swirling her hand into the bubbles rising and breaking on the surface. Without warning, she thought of Mrs. Lockwood. Thought of his hand on the back of her head, holding her under, how she must have fought that strength, that murderous will. How his hand was the last living thing Carol Lockwood would ever feel, the span of the immortal's fingers tangling in her hair, defining the shape of her skull.

She slipped to her knees and turned awkwardly, reaching blindly for the commode, vomiting uselessly, dry heaving into the bowl. She stood, shaking, and wiped at her mouth.

Later, her mother finally asleep, the hall light on, she curled herself into the corner of the sofa and held her phone in her hands. She opened her favorite contacts, the list was short and there wasn't a single name she could call or text. A profound sense of loneliness filled her lungs like dirty water. She breathed out and forgave herself for scrolling back and tapping on his name.

"Caroline."

"I hate you."

"I know, love. I know you do."

There was no quiet place between them, she began to sob.

"Oh, sweet girl. I'm sorry. For all of it. I'm so sorry."

"I don't believe you."

"I know that, too."

She sniffed, more water filling her. She was drowning. "What are you doing? Where are you?"

"What am I doing and where am I? Well, I'm alone. I'm sitting on a rooftop downtown. This is the real city that never sleeps. There's a kind of magical realism here that enchants. I'm watching small tides of people crest and break. They're leaving bars and speakeasies. They're wandering the streets looking for their next fix. Or love, they might be looking for love. What are you doing?"

She wiped her eyes dry with her free hand, leaning further into the cushions, lying her head on the arm of the sofa, whispering across all of the miles. "I'm thinking of a deserted island."

"Yes?"

"Of you and me on a deserted island. Just us."

"We'd get hungry."

Silence.

"Or is that the point?"

* * *

She had never been a girl wooed by fairy tales. Her dreams were of attainable realities and she had brought nearly all of her desires to fruition. She could envision what she wanted and make it happen.

For the first time in her admittedly short life she wanted something to happen to her. Something she had no control over, something that would render her not helpless but beholden to circumstance.

She wanted the ubiquitous shipwreck and deserted island. She wanted to be stranded with him, alone. Conscience an affect of a civilized life left behind. More than anything she began to want all the ties that bound them to this life cut and fallen away, wanted to be unfettered with him, wanted to explore and discover.

In her fantasy, they swam away from the shipwreck of their lives, their ridiculously complicated existences, beneath the cleansing, simplifying waves, until their feet touched sand and they surfaced from the dark waters into the sunlight. The deserted island rising before them like a promise. And in that moment, the past and the future dripping from their bodies, they could reach for one another.


End file.
